


Unspoken Legacy

by lickitysplit



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Dadgil Week (Devil May Cry), Family, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Heavy Angst, look i can't stress enough the angst ok, vergil and nero working out their problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24859273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lickitysplit/pseuds/lickitysplit
Summary: Nero and Dante have an annual trip to hunt a particular demon, but this year Vergil goes in Dante's place. Things are awkward at first until Vergil tells Nero a bit about himself, and they have a confrontation that had been a long time coming.
Relationships: Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for Dadgil Week 2020 on Twitter, and posted it on my Tumblr as well. I couldn't think of a title so I wasn't putting it here but then thought, the hell with it I'll go full cliche, why not.
> 
> There is a new chapter every day this week, so please check back tomorrow for the next part. I want to give a shout out to Solynacea for reading this over and encouraging me to post this even though I figured readers would have seen this scenario a million times and not interested in my take on it.
> 
> As always I welcome comments so please feel free, and I'll respond!

Nero’s mouth screws into a scowl as he folds his arms. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

Dante leans on the doorframe with a sad nod. “Yeah. Sorry, kid.” He holds up his bandaged arm, lifting it as high as it can go in its sling. “Not gonna be any use to you with a broken arm.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Nero protests. “You’re half-demon. You bled for a month in the dirt and got right back up. And you’re telling me you have a broken bone?”

“I don’t know, must have been some powerful magic or whatever.” Dante shrugs. “I said I’m sorry. I know this weekend means a lot to ya.”

Clearing his throat, Nero shakes his head. “It’s fine. I get it. Dealing with the Kuren will be a pain in the ass but I got it handled.”

At that Dante breaks into a grin. “Nah, you don’t gotta do that! I got the perfect partner for you to take.”

A familiar figure appears over his shoulder. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters under his breath.

“Nero.” Vergil nods in greeting, his face expressionless. Nero notes that at least he’s dressed semi-normally, in jeans and a leather jacket, not his Victorian-era getup or whatever he calls it. He carries a duffel bag in one hand, Yamato in the other. “Dante says you need help with a job.”

“Yeah.” Nero rubs the back of his head with a sigh. “You sure? You don’t have to. It could take a few days, and living in the van isn’t exactly a good time.”

“It’s fine.” 

He slides by Dante, who claps him on the back. They watch Vergil climb into the passenger side of the van before Dante elbows him. “Hey, have a good time!” he says cheerfully. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Nero shoots him the finger, which makes Dante laugh as he shuts the door. He steels himself for a moment before heading to the van. “So tell me about this demon,” Vergil says as he sits behind the steering wheel.

He puts the car into drive and pulls out, turning at the light to head to the highway. “Small town out in the middle of nowhere. They have this thing that shows up once a year, some leftover spirit or something that was cursed. The people used to give it offerings to make it go away, but when they got wind of the Devil May Cry, they hired me and Dante instead.”

Traffic is pretty clear, and they make it to the highway in no time. It’s a three hour drive to their destination, and after switching on the cruise control Nero starts to fiddle with the radio. He settles on an oldies station, his fingers tapping on the wheel as the drive continues in silence. Once in a while he glances over, but Vergil just stares out the window, observing the outside world with his usual total dispassion.

Nero slumps a bit in the driver’s seat. The truth is, this weekend is something he really did look forward to, although he’d shoot anyone who would suspect how much. He and Dante had been hunting the Kuran for the past four years, taking the van to wait during the three days of the full moon for when it would appear. As they waited, it would turn into three days of beer and comparing scars, jokes and target practice and talking about girls. It was the closest thing he had to some bonding time since Credo had died, and before him Kyrie’s father. Not that the Order had encouraged fun like this, but Credo had at least treated him as more than just the freak.

An hour into the drive they hit a bit of congestion, and Nero stretches when they come to a stop. “Hope this doesn’t last long,” he says, turning the radio dial again.

“Will there be something to eat there?” Vergil asks.

It was the first time he had heard his voice since they left Red Grave, and Nero jumps a bit. “Uh, not like a restaurant,” he answers. “I packed enough stuff for us. Dante and I would…” 

He frowns, wondering if it would be weird to talk about it. But it doesn’t change anything, so he continues, “Dante and I would do a fire pit and cook food, make it like a campout. Is that okay? I mean, I don’t know if you’re into that kind of stuff…”

“It’s fine,” Vergil replies. He still hasn’t even looked over, continuing his stare out the window. 

“Okay.” Nero turns back to the road for a moment before asking, “Are you hungry now? There’s chips and stuff in the back.”

For the first time, Vergil finally turns to him. “I’m fine,” he says. Then he jerks his chin up a bit. “This is something you and Dante do?”

“Uh, every year, yeah. The thing comes back for its offerings. Why?”

“No reason.” Vergil settles back and lifts his hand to indicate out the window. “The traffic is moving again.”

“Oh. Right.” Nero’s face is on fire as he looks forward, hitting the gas as a construction worker waves them through.


	2. Chapter 2

The campsite is little more than a small clearing. There is a brook nearby, and Vergil can hear the water running in a quiet murmur. Everything around him feels very  _ alive, _ the trees and the grass and the birds calling to one another. He can hear the insects and sense the moss growing on the ground. It feels more alive here than it does in the city, where everything is covered with a layer of dirt that helps mute the energy that pulses there. But here in the woods it is open and clean and he can taste it as easily as tasting the fresh air.

“Wanna grab this?” Nero calls.

Vergil nods and walks back to the van. The side door is open, and Nero hands him two folded chairs before nodding to the left. “Fire pit is over there.”

He carries the chairs and opens them before debating where to put them. Next to one another would be strange, wouldn’t it? Vergil frowns. Do Dante and Nero sit next to each other? Across from each other? He tries to think back to when they’ve all been together.

Nero drops a cooler on the ground, opening it and pulling out two bottles. “Here,” he says, holding one out.

Vergil takes it, popping open the top. The smell of beer fills his nose, and Vergil immediately knows it is terribly cheap and will taste just as bad. But he takes a long drink when Nero does the same. “Ah, just what I’ve been wanting,” the boy sighs.

He swallows as Nero grabs one of the open chairs and rearranges it a few feet away. That makes more sense, Vergil realizes, than either next to each other or across from each other. Nothing so formal for Dante and Nero, who seem to interact with a baffling amount of ease. He sits in the empty chair as Nero flops into his own, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles as he takes another swig. “We’ll do the fire in a bit,” he says. Vergil watches as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Feels good to be out of the city, doesn’t it?”

Not sure how to answer, Vergil looks around. “There’s more to see,” he says.

Nero opens one eye to peer at him. “What do you mean?”

“Different types of trees, different colors in the sky.” He tilts his face up to feel the sunlight. “It’s brighter here, too. And quiet. Gives you more things to hear.”

His son looks a bit confused, but he tilts his head, as if listening. “Yeah, it is quiet out here. But anything’s quieter than a house full of kids,” he laughs.

Vergil presses his lips together and looks away. “I wouldn’t know,” he replies.

Nero looks embarrassed, and honestly, that feels worse than the innocent comment. “I meant, it was always just me and Dante, when we were children,” Vergil continues. “I don’t recall having friends or other children around.”

“Yeah.” He catches Nero in the corner of his eye rubbing his hands on his thighs, as if nervous. “Yeah, I figured you meant that.”

Should they talk about this? Is now a good time? Vergil looks up at the afternoon sky, the trees creating enough of a canopy to keep it from being too hot. They are here now so he might as well. But it’s so difficult, which makes this even harder, because Vergil has never found things to be difficult. For as far back as he can remember, until the fateful day at Temen-ni-gru, Vergil had never failed at any task he had ever set his mind to accomplish.

Nero has sunk down a bit in his chair, so Vergil clears his throat. “It must not have been a  _ difficult _ transition, having grown up in an orphanage.” Nero sits up and looks at him in surprise, which Vergil takes as an encouraging sign. “You spent most of the time there, correct? Then moved in with that family, who had children. You were never really alone.”

The words hang between them, and somehow the atmosphere grows quiet. Even the insects and birds themselves seem to have stilled, all holding their breath as Vergil does now, waiting for Nero to reply. The longer the moments tick by, the more nervous he becomes, until he breaks into a sweat on his neck and wishes he had removed his leather coat. He tries to read Nero’s face, as it always expresses just what he is feeling, a trait Vergil was grateful for since it took the guesswork out of emotion yet deep down found to be another bad human habit his son had developed.

But this time, the surprise melts into something he can’t quite place. It’s almost as if Nero is feeling every emotion at once. “I might have been around people growing up,” he finally says, “but I was plenty alone.”

Vergil swallows thickly. “I see.”  _ I was alone, too, _ he wants to say, but it doesn’t feel like the right time.


	3. Chapter 3

It is immediately clear to Nero that Vergil has no fucking clue what he’s doing. “Give me that,” he says, snapping without meaning to.

Vergil hands over the whisk he is using to stir the coffee. He moves out of the way as Nero crouches down, checking the water temperature before turning his attention to the small pot of chili that is bubbling over the flame next to a half dozen hot dogs heating on tin foil. It only takes a few more minutes before the meal is ready, and Nero stands to grab the plates and utensils.

He spies Vergil back near the van. His jacket is off, and it looks like he is refilling the cooler.  _ At least  _ that _ is some help, _ Nero thinks, feeling bad about being mean.

“Food’s ready,” he calls over. He turns away before Vergil looks, not wanting to open himself to conversation. Nero pours two cups of coffee, then opens the plastic container where they keep the cooking gear. But he hesitates as he pulls out the plastic plate and utensil set.

Dante always liked the red one. Nero would tease him about it, since he wore the red jacket and had the red neon over the shop. But he always let Dante have it, and took the blue. It was like their thing. 

But Vergil preferred cooler colors. It was something weird he had noticed about the twins: Dante red, Vergil blue. Does he offer him the blue one? For some reason, Nero feels weird about that too. The blue is his, and Dante’s is red, and if Vergil is here instead of Dante he’s eating off a damn red plate. What difference did it even make?

His heart is pounding when he straightens. Such a stupid ass reason to get worked up honestly. “Do you care which?” he asks, holding up both sets.

Vergil shakes his head as he holds out his right hand. Nero lifts his left, which just so happens to have the blue set. He swallows as he hands it over, knowing Vergil probably lifted his right because he’s right-handed, not because he wanted the blue, if he even cared, but probably not because he’s an adult and adults don’t care about that kind of shit unless you’re a dumbass like Dante.

That settled, he scoops a spoonful of chili onto Vergil’s plate before using the tongs to deposit two hot dogs on top. Nero does the same to his (red) plate before settling in his chair. He uses his fork to cut up the hot dogs, mixing it all together, his stomach rumbling a bit at the smell of beans and tomato and spices. Again he spies Vergil in the corner of his eye. He is watching Nero carefully, and when he finishes stirring his hot dog pieces in the chili, Vergil does the same. Something about that irks him, like he’s being copied, but that’s even more fucking stupid than the blue plate thing so Nero lets it go. 

Why is it he always brings out the worst in him? It’s like his long-forgotten immature streak just flares whenever Vergil even breathes in his direction. It is something intangible that he can’t describe, even to Kyrie, about how he can’t seem to interact with Vergil outside of the most basic courtesies. Dante is different, Dante is… Dante. Heat floods his neck as he stares at his food, his nostrils flaring a bit with a swell of aggravation. It’s not fair this should be so difficult for him, when Vergil glides through this fucked-up relationship with such ease.

“Everything alright?” Vergil asks.

Nero looks up to see him regarding him as he eats. “Can I ask you something?” 

Vergil hesitates for a split second as he brings the fork back to his mouth. “Yes,” he answers, succinct as ever.

But now the spotlight is on him, and Nero’s lungs grow uncomfortably tight. “What’s your favorite color?” he finally stammers out.

Vergil’s brow dips as he considers. “I don’t have one. What’s yours?”

Nero shakes his head, surprised at how the question was returned. “I don’t know. Black maybe? Gray? But what do you mean you don’t have a favorite color?” He leans forward and gestures to him with his own fork. “You are always wearing blue stuff. Your coat is blue, your fucking devil trigger is blue. Isn’t your favorite color blue?”

He is astonished to see Vergil actually consider it, as if he is weighing the options. “I guess you’re right,” he answers simply. “My favorite color is blue.”

Vergil returns to eating, leaving Nero gaping at him. Is he for real? Is he joking with him, making fun of him? “Is that it?” he cries, and Vergil looks up sharply. “Is that all you have to  _ say?” _

“Do you have more questions?” Vergil asks evenly.

“Yeah I have a lot of fucking questions!”

He expects Vergil to frown, or grow cold, or get that air around him like he’s better than everyone else. But instead, he smiles a bit, as if challenging him. “Ask away then, Nero.”

Nero stares at him for several long moments. “How’s the food?” he chokes out.

“Better than pizza,” Vergil replies.

There is something behind Nero’s eyes, like they are filling with a liquid heat. But he just nods, blinking as he looks away. “Good,” he answers, returning to his own meal.


	4. Chapter 4

Nero is dozing in front of the fire, so Vergil uses the opportunity to study him. It’s nearing midnight, but he doesn’t need much sleep; two or three hours is plenty for him, whether it’s his demon blood or the utter lack of rest he experienced in Hell, he could not say. But he finds some comfort in how easily Nero can rest, slouched in his very typical way in his chair, his head back and mouth slightly open. 

Vergil would never admit it, but he finds the same sort of comfort when Dante sleeps. He suspects it is the simplicity of the act, feeling safe enough to close his eyes. Often his brother just crashes on the leather couch, proclaiming it more comfortable than his bed, or dozes in his chair. There is no need to listen for footsteps, no cracking of bone or the grinding of his empty stomach, no drip drip drip of blood in his eyes. Just a well-worn couch and a rumpled up coat and a lock on the door to keep the world outside.

Nero is older now than Vergil was when he was defeated by Mundus. He tries to remember it clearly, but a lot of that is impossible now. Everything before falling from the tower and everything after eating the Qliphoth fruit are crystal clear, but those years between are a blur of the real and imagined. But as he closely inspects him, Vergil thinks Nero looks like Dante, maybe if his hair was longer. Of course, Vergil is no longer the perfect match of his twin, his face being broken and battered and shredded and regrown so many times that by the time Mundus was killed he looked different.

Those memories aren’t comfortable, and Vergil shifts in his chair. He considers waking up Nero to send him into the van, but at his movement Nero snaps awake, his hand on the revolver that hangs at his side. “What is it?” he asks breathlessly, blinking rapidly.

“Nothing. You should go to bed,” Vergil replies.

Nero stretches, sitting up in his chair. “Nah. Want to keep an eye out a bit longer. This thing can show up any time during the full moon.”

“I can keep watch,” offers Vergil. “I don’t require as much sleep.”

There is no answer to that, so he watches Nero poke the fire with a stick. The burning wood makes a crackling sound that is too loud, as if showing off how little they have to say. It is the perfect opportunity for Vergil to talk and explain or offer answers, but as always, he doesn’t know what to say.

“Why haven’t you ever killed this creature?” Vergil finally asks.

Nero shrugs. “We’ve tried. Not so easy. It’s fast as hell, and doesn’t really have a body. It can move around like a… mass. Kind of like how Shadow was?” His eyes go a bit wide as he rushes on, “Sorry, is that like, do you remember Shadow? Is that weird to say?”

“I remember it,” Vergil replies. Nightmare and Shadow and Griffon, pieces of him that still visit his dreams.

“Right.” He can tell that Nero is uncomfortable, but Vergil doesn’t know how to help, since he is just as uncomfortable. “Anyway, it’s fucking hard to kill. We scare it off basically. I’m guessing if it’s not this full moon it can’t manifest.”

“Interesting.” A piece of him wishes to analyze that, and he thinks of his journal that he had left at home. Vergil had been cataloguing all the types of demons and devils that they had fought, wanting a comprehensive list in case something or someone from Hell showed up to find the king. 

Nero snorts as he crosses his legs. “Yeah, interesting. Guess you could say that.” He raises his arms and yawns before hooking his hands behind his head, a gesture that Vergil recognizes from Dante. Is it genetic, or did he pick it up? “You know what happened to those guys anyway? Griffon and Shadow? They were uh…” He laughs and shakes his head, grinning at the fire. “An interesting bunch.”

“I don’t know exactly,” Vergil admits. He looks at the fire too, trying to examine his memory. Had he felt them leave? He was whole again when it had happened, and he remembers… something. But the Qliphoth fruit had been so fresh in his veins in that moment that he doesn’t trust much from his own mind. “They were there, then they weren’t. They weren’t real anyway, not in simplest terms. They were nightmares come to life.”

Nero leans forward, and Vergil feels a bit pinned being so scrutinized. “Nightmares about what?”

Vergil swallows thickly. “You know that I was in Hell.”

“Right, but…” Vergil watches Nero shake his head, his heart thudding a bit in a mixture of anxiety and relief. “I mean, you went back, with Dante? And you didn’t come out with familiars.”

The truth is best in this situation. Vergil knows this, deep down, and he stares at the fire, feeling a burning inside. Part of him wants to curse Dante for never telling him this stuff. Every time another piece is revealed, Nero is hurt, so why didn’t he ever just…  _ No, _ Vergil scolds himself. Nero is  _ his _ son, and giving him the truth is his duty as a father. As easy as it would be to fall into his pattern of blaming Dante and directing this emotion towards him, Vergil won’t do it. He does not take the easy way out.

“I will tell you a story that happened over twenty years ago,” he says. Vergil keeps his gaze on the fire, not wanting to see Nero’s face, afraid his reactions will cause him to falter. “You must imagine, Nero, a boy of nineteen, who has been alone in the world for a decade. This boy lives on the streets, stealing to eat, the memories of his family fading like the twilight. The only reason he remembers anything at all is because every so often, monsters emerge from the shadows to eat him.

“Then the boy meets a man who gives him a sword. He says it belonged to his father, and tells him stories of how his father was a hero of imaginable power. How he, just a young man, hungry and dirty and homeless, could get that power too. Can you imagine how incredible that sounded? He didn’t have to hide anymore, no more hunger pains, no more monsters. 

“But the story is too fantastic, even for the boy. So he goes to investigate, to find out all he can about his father. And each place he goes he finds it’s  _ true. _ All of it. His father was a legendary knight, who was not only powerful, but saved humanity. He was a  _ good guy. _ His power was good, so the boy thinks, that means if I use that power, I am good too.

“Now imagine he finds out his brother is alive. All this time, he thought his family was gone, but his brother was not only alive but taken care of. He had clothes and a home and a sword of his own. How did that happen? It weighs on him, but he goes to see him and share this news of their legacy. But his brother is not interested. He doesn’t want this power, doesn’t need it. Can you see how much of a betrayal that would be? The boy needs the power to do good things, not for himself, no, never for himself. To save humanity, just like his father did.

“When his brother arrives to stop him, it is another betrayal. He—he cares for his brother, and now that he has power he remembers so much that had faded away. Being defeated is… was…”

Vergil swallows painfully, his chest tight. “Go on,” Nero says, his voice even. “What did the boy do next?”

The corner of Vergil’s mouth curls up. “He jumped into Hell. He thought,  _ if I don’t have this power here, with the humans, then I’ll take it from the demons themselves. _ He couldn’t go back to that, you see. He couldn’t live on the streets or steal or be worthless and dirty and hungry again. Not now.

“The king of Hell was too powerful. They were no match, a boy of nineteen with a sword against a king and his kingdom. The king does not take prisoners, but he made an exception for this one. You see, the boy’s father had betrayed him thousands of years ago. The king had sat and stewed on this for millennia. The demon was gone but his son was right there, so he…”

The fire is crackling loudly, as if in response to Vergil’s story. His chest is now too tight to go on, his mouth moving to form words. But there is not enough air in his lungs to push his voice out, so he stops to catch his breath.

Nero does not speak or move, letting the story live between them for now. Finally the pain eases enough for Vergil to lift his head, and he finds his son staring at him stone-faced, fear bright in his eyes. “The familiars were leftovers from that time. They were useful to V, but I’m glad they are gone.”

His son blinks rapidly as he sucks in a deep breath. Then Nero stands and stalks to the van, opening the door to climb inside before slamming it shut.


	5. Chapter 5

The Kuren is on its way. The tingling in Nero’s veins that occurs when a demon is nearby is faint, but familiar, so he listens and watches intensely, not sure yet from what direction it approaches. Red Queen is secure to his back, Blue Rose in its holster, and he is ready. 

But it is difficult to concentrate, because Vergil is nearby. He sits silently on the side of the van, the door open with him perched on the step. Yamato is sheathed but Vergil holds it like a cane, his hands folded on its hilt. He stares straight ahead, as if unseeing, and Nero wonders what he is thinking.

Maybe he doesn’t want to know. The story he told last night was… disturbing. Nero had known most of it, pieced together in the hints Dante let slip and reading between the lines of the twins’ conversations. He knew they had been separated as kids, both thinking the other was dead, and that Vergil had jumped into Hell when he lost to Dante. 

But it was always a joke or something, nothing like what he had described. Nero had no idea what he was supposed to _do._ He had laid on the couch in the van, staring at the ceiling as he waited for his stomach to settle. The images the story had created in his mind were terrifying, but Nero refused to let a story upset him. He had been _fine_ not knowing, yet now that he knows how much he doesn’t know… it was all too confusing, too much to handle, and he had pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and waited for the emotion to subside. 

It never subsided. It just grew and boiled until it turned to a mess of shit. Why did Vergil tell him all that? What was he supposed to _do_ with it? Comfort him? Give him a pat on the back, say it’s all okay or some shit?

Because it _wasn’t_ okay. He didn’t care what Vergil had thought when he raised the Temen-ni-gru or how tough Hell was. It didn’t excuse what he did. Vergil had ripped his fucking _arm_ off, had killed thousands of people in Red Grave City, had nearly killed Trish and Lady and Dante. 

He scowls as he looks over at his father, his hands clenching a bit. The horror rises up fresh, but Nero turns it into anger, an emotion he’s much more comfortable feeling. Anger he can work with. “Hey,” he calls. “Can I ask you something?”

Vergil doesn’t look over, but nods. “Yes. This demon is getting close.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nero huffs. “What you said last night. About being in Hell.”

That gets his attention, and Vergil looks over. “Yes?”

“You expect me to believe that bullshit?”

Vergil does not react; not that Nero would have expected him to, the fucker was always as expressive as a wet blanket, but it would have been satisfying to at least see some surprise. “Believe it?” Vergil asks. “It’s the truth.”

“Some shitty ass truth,” Nero growls. 

“Shitty or not, it happened.” Vergil goes back to staring straight ahead, which annoys the piss out of him. It feels dismissive, which only cranks up his annoyance more. 

He takes a few steps closer to put himself directly in Vergil’s line of sight. “You expect me to listen to that shit, and what? Give you a hug and a cookie? You gave me a list of excuses and you know what? I don’t buy any of it!” 

Nero’s voice raises a bit in pitch and volume, Vergil as unimpressed as ever. And that pisses him off even _more,_ because he is filled with a sorrow he can’t handle while Vergil gets to feel nothing. “You know, I was alone too. I was fucking hungry. I got my ass kicked by older kids and sometimes I had to sleep on the street if the orphanage had a sick fucker in charge.” His nostrils flare as Nero struggles to speak through his anger. “Nobody showed up and gave me a fucking sword, though. I had to make one myself. I didn’t get to be the son of some holy saint demon asshole. I was tortured for being the son of a pro, only to find out I’m the son of a lunatic.”

Vergil’s mouth twitches. “I’m not asking your forgiveness.”

Nero pulls Blue Rose from its holster. “Good, because you’re not getting it anyway!”

The trees bend as the Kuren enters the clearing. It is ten feet tall at least, covered in wisps of demon magic that resembles long, shaggy fur, thick curved claws on its paws and two horns that curl up from the top of its head. It gives a roar and lunges at them, but Nero is too quick, jumping in the air and grabbing hold of a tree branch with one hand as he aims with the other.

A series of pops echo in the forest as he shoots. Several bullets sail through the monster, and it roars as he tries to rush the other side. It teeters as it spins to make its escape, exactly what Nero had expected, disappearing faster than he and Dante had ever been able to track but at least gone for another year. But before it can move, Vergil steps out of a portal under the beast and shoves Yamato upwards, into its stomach.

Bright red blood splashes on the ground and douses Vergil with gore. The Kuren is roaring, but without a midsection it can’t run. Nero drops to the ground, squinting a bit at the neon crackle when a portal opens. Vergil kicks the thing through, and Yamato quickly seals it again as the atmosphere returns to normal.

Vergil is a mess. Nero holsters his revolver as he scowls at him, snapping, “What did you do that for?”

“I got rid of it,” replies Vergil. “I sent it to Hell.”

“Send yourself next time!” Nero shouts. 

Finally the veneer begins to crack, and with satisfaction Nero watches as Vergil makes a face. “You brought me to fight it, correct? I did what you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you for shit,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t ask you for a thing.”

“What is this about?” Vergil demands. “You wanted to stop the Kuren, and it’s been stopped—”

“Fuck the Kuren!” Nero steps up to him and points an accusing finger. His palm itches to draw his revolver and find out once and for all if a bullet at point-blank range will take care of a Sparda, but instead he pokes Vergil in the chest. “All that shit you said were nothing but excuses. You think you can make up for it by killing some Kuren? Going camping with me, like some goddamn father-son retreat? Fuck that, and fuck you. You took my _arm._ You killed people. You… you almost killed Dante!”

Vergil’s eyes narrow. “So that’s what’s wrong. You wish he was here instead of me. Feeling is mutual.”

“It has nothing to do with that!” Nero shouts. “It has to do with you. Everything—everything is because of _you._ _You_ left me in Fortuna. And you know, the Order wouldn’t have been able to do all that shit if it wasn’t for you. They found Yamato and your damn Angelo or whatever it’s called, and used that to make the Savior. Credo died because of _you._ That’s not even counting all the people who died in Red Grave.”

“Go ahead and blame me then,” Vergil hisses. “It’s the easiest thing to do, isn’t it?”

He steps around Nero, carrying his sword as he heads to the van. Nero watches as he tosses the sword inside and grabs his duffel bag before turning to head towards the stream. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“None of your damn business,” Vergil proclaims, and Nero isn’t sure what surprises him more: his language or the fact that he didn’t answer.


	6. Chapter 6

The afternoon returns to silence. Vergil had half expected the van to be gone when he returned from getting washed up; instead, Nero was prepping another campfire, studiously ignoring him. 

There is nothing to say. Nero is right and wrong, and so is he, Vergil decides. And he is the parent now, so he can’t snap at him, not the way he wants to, anyway. If he were Dante, Vergil would have already gone after him. 

Nero hands him a plate of dinner, leftover chili and some kind of wrap. They eat in silence, but it gnaws at Vergil. Usually he prefers the quiet since his years in Hell had been filled with noise. But he needs to say something.

“Are we waiting until the morning to go back home?” Vergil asks as they clean up.

Nero makes a face. “Yeah. We got some unfinished business.”

The tone of his voice sets Vergil on edge. He senses something volatile inside Nero, which he knows has been brewing for a long time. Was not being the one to kill the Kuren really that difficult for him? Is this some pent-up blood lust? “If this is about—”

“This is about us,” Nero says. “You and me.” He dumps the cleaned plates into the storage bin and straightens. “We are working this out before we go back.”

Vergil watches as he walks back to the van and then emerges with Red Queen. Nero looks at him coldly, the dusk giving plenty of light to read the hard expression on his face. “Let’s fight.”

“I’m not fighting you,” Vergil says.

“Yes, you are.” Nero plants the tip of the sword in the ground and flicks the switch at the top. Immediately the engine starts to hum, and Nero’s fingers adjust around the hilt. “Get your sword.”

“No.”

“This is how the Spardas do it, right?” Nero yells. “You disagree so we beat the fuck out of each other? Or do you only do it on top of trees or towers or whatever?”

Vergil swallows thickly. “I’m not fighting you.”

He watches as Nero’s face screws tightly and hears the sound of the engine revving. Vergil is angry, as angry as he had ever felt with Dante, his senses on high alert and the drive to  _ fight kill win _ sparking under his skin. The same itch he feels when Dante goes against his wishes, from arriving at the top of the Qliphoth back to refusing to give him his amulet all the way back to when they were children arguing over toys. The same itch when Mundus, the demon he  _ knew _ was responsible for killing his parents, had refused to hand over the throne. The same itch every time a demon emerges from Hell, technically his  _ own _ subjects, and threaten the first bit of peace he ever experienced.

But there is a layer of hurt that is strange and unexpected, because this is  _ Nero.  _ Nero, who has a loud mouth but a soft heart, who uses foul language to cover up how much he cares, who is rough around the edges but is never, ever destructive. He has only seen Nero truly angry twice: once during their confrontation on the Qliphoth, and the other right now. Both times, Vergil realizes, are because of him.

Nero lifts Red Queen and swings. Vergil dodges it easily, tilting his body as he steps out of the way. “Get your fucking sword!” Nero yells, taking another swipe at him.

“I’m not fighting you,” Vergil growls.

“I’ll fucking kill you then!”

Nero keeps advancing, one slash after another. Vergil continues to avoid the blade, backing up and away to give him a wide berth. Eventually Nero pulls out his revolver and takes a shot at him, but Vergil ducks out of the path of the bullet. With a frustrated shout, Nero charges him, knocking them both to the ground so they are scrabbling in the dirt.

“Fucking fight me!” roars Nero, his fists flying. Vergil does nothing more than block the blows, his forearms up in a defensive move. He kicks his legs to try to buck Nero off of him, but Nero is nearly wild from emotion, the flickers of his devil trigger beginning to glow under his skin. Vergil pushes him off, using a bit more force than he realizes and sending Nero skidding over the grass and Red Queen flying. They look at each other in a tense surprise as Nero climbs back to his feet.

“Finally,” he says. “Finally gonna fight back. I been waiting a long time for this.”

Vergil spies how his hands clench into fists. “I’m not fighting you.”

“Stop saying that!” Nero darts towards him and aims a kick at his chin. Stars explode in his vision as pain shoots through Vergil’s skull, and before he can respond Nero grabs him by his shirt, straightens him, and punches him across the face.

The metallic taste of blood fills his tongue, making Vergil cough. He leans on one hand in the dirt, looking up at Nero, whose expression is pure fury. Nero punches him again, and again, but Vergil does nothing other than stay upright.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nero lets go of his shirt, and Vergil sags a bit as he shakes his head to clear it. Getting punched by him is just like getting one from Dante, and although he starts healing right away, the force of it is not diminished at all. “Get up on your goddamn feet!”

“No.”

“Why not?” he screams. “You can fight Dante, but not me? Am I not good enough for you? Not worthy enough? You can fucking go to hell!”

The words pierce through his chest, no different than a sword. His instincts war inside, wanting nothing more than to rip Nero apart, but knowing he can’t. Never once has Vergil surrendered, not to an enemy or Mundus or Dante—but he can’t fight Nero.  _ Maybe he is right, _ Vergil thinks. Maybe this is how Spardas handle things. It hurts to think that Nero can’t escape this legacy, another strange sensation that he doesn’t understand but knows without a doubt is true. His father was a fighter, and now his son is too. There is no escaping this birthright. Is fighting even a choice anymore? 

_ Strength is a choice. _ Dante’s voice echoes in his head, and Vergil flinches, wondering when he said that. But he sees now that it is true, and this is  _ not _ their legacy; or at least, doesn’t have to be.

So Vergil chooses. He presses his hands on the ground, leaning forward to brace himself on his palms. He hangs his head, the posture of being on hands and knees in the dirt stirring up more emotion than he had anticipated. It feels too familiar, and for a moment he is back in Hell, the presence of Mundus towering over him. Without realizing he tenses for the blow, wondering where it will strike, if it will burn or cut or spread poison like a fire. His fingers clench into the grass, ripping the dirt and tearing at his nails. Vergil bites back a sound, knowing that if he is anything but silent, Mundus will make it worse.

“What are you doing?”

The catch in Nero’s voice draws him out of the memories. His face is wet, and he looks up, wondering if it is raining. But the evening is clear, just darker, and Nero stands in front of him in silhouette, the fire glowing orange behind him. “I won’t fight you,” Vergil replies, his voice cracking around his dry throat.

“Don’t look like that. Don’t look like that.” Nero kneels in front of him, pushing at his shoulder, and Vergil is shocked to see giant tears rolling down his cheeks. “Don’t make that face! I didn’t hurt you, did I? Fuck, fuck…”

Nero presses both hands on his shoulders as he examines him through his sobs. But Vergil huffs out a small breath of relief, his own fresh tears rising as he smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

The ride back to Red Grave City is silent. This seems to be their de facto state: sitting side by side or across from one another, not speaking. For someone like Nero, who is always running his mouth, it feels weird, like a suit that doesn't fit or shoes the wrong size. His tongue is practically buzzing with the need to talk but everything seems like the wrong thing to say.

He glances over at Vergil in the passenger side. He looks content enough, back to looking out the window, the same posture he had on the drive up to the site. It strikes Nero that he must find the world so fascinating since it has changed so much over the years, and wonders why he never thought of that before.

There is a lot he hasn’t thought of before. What Hell had been like, what coming back had been like. He wonders if Vergil even preferred it there; despite its horror Hell seemed very orderly compared to the chaos of the human world. He had heard Vergil remark before that demons only want one thing while humans want everything, and remembers how he had thought that was the stupidest thing he ever heard. But it’s true, isn’t it? Demons are way easier to figure out.

Humans are complicated, including himself. Nero would laugh if it wasn’t so ridiculous: all this time, all he wanted were answers to his questions. Why did Vergil do what he did? Why did he choose Hell? Why did he stay? Why kill people? So many fucking questions and now that he has his answers… well, he wishes he could go back and warn himself. He knows now why Dante had never told him much of the truth. Who wants truth when it’s so fucked up? 

Nero had spent another night staring at the ceiling of the van, unable to sleep as he thought about Vergil’s story. Closing his eyes, he had pictured the orphanage being overrun with demons, had tried to think about what he would have done without Credo and Kyrie, how he would have handled it if that had happened to him. The fact that he couldn’t picture it at all had told him all he needed to know. Fuck Sparda and Mundus and all of them for leaving them with all this shit.

He hadn’t been angry at Vergil, not really, even though it came out like that. Nero’s neck heats a bit at that, knowing it’s how he has always been. He used to always get in trouble and get chewed out because he was what Credo called a hothead and what the other kids called a freak. It was as if rage was in his DNA. He had tried so many times to not react, and Nero honestly thought now that he is an adult he was past all that shit… only to blow up at Vergil. His hands tighten around the steering wheel, clenching his teeth together to stop himself from cursing. What in the hell is he going to do?

But he needs to say something. The silence is getting weird now, what was comfortable last night when they stopped crying and finally slept and lasted through the morning as they packed up and headed out is now turning uncomfortable. Nero shifts in his seat as he eases on the gas, the early morning highway almost totally clear and leaving his brain way too much time to think. 

What did Vergil and Dante do after they fought? He can’t recall ever seeing them talk or anything. He’s seen them fight over everything from weapons to bedrooms to the volume of the television, more times than not ending up with a sword in some body part. Once Nero had walked in on them tearing each other’s clothes into shreds, angry and arguing but laughing at the same time before suddenly stopping and ordering a pizza, only to resume again once they had eaten. 

Nero should have brought a pizza.

He flips through the possibilities: I’m sorry. I forgive you. I forgive you only if you promise not to do that again. Don’t fucking do that again. I shouldn’t have hurt you. You shouldn’t have hurt me. Let’s stop this. Let’s start over. Let’s keep going. You need to make this right. You need to make this up to me. You can’t take it all back. I want you to try. I want you to be yourself. I want to try to be better. I want to try to be your son.

Fuck, so many questions, filling up his mind. Do you like fighting? When did you learn? What was Sparda like? Would Sparda and Eva have liked me? What do you really think of Dante? Why did you hurt him? Did you know? Why did you create V? 

Did V know who I was?

Did you ever know who I was?

Who was my mother?

_ Just one question, _ he thinks.  _ Come on, dumbass, pick one fucking question and ask him. He’s right there. He’ll answer, just pick one, come on, pick!! _

“You doing okay?” Nero asks, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Vergil replies.

Nero nods and looks back at the road, heading for home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, really this was such a pleasure to write and seeing how it was touching others was so rewarding. I appreciate every one of you and thank you for letting me tell this story. And as always, thank you so much to solynacea for reading this over and encouraging me to go through with posting.


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